to the beginning
by moirariordan
Summary: [Heroes] Claire is thirteen when she first notices it. [Clairecentric, hints of ClaireZach and ClairePeter]
1. 1

1/4

--

Claire is thirteen when she first notices it.

She'd mouthed off to her mother earlier – mostly on instinct – and has received a pile of carrots to peel and chop in consequence. She sequesters herself to the farthest corner of the kitchen, as far away from her parents' chatter as possible, absolutely determined in her preteen indignation. She's frowning and muttering darkly to herself, taking out her angst on the poor vegetables, and it's not until she sees specks of red on the white countertop that she realizes that she's been shredding her palm instead of the carrot.

She shrieks and drops everything, but when her mother rushes over, her palm is pink and warm, as healthy and clean as the day she was born. When Lyle asks her what her damage is, it's all she can do to choke out an answer – _I don't know._

Her mother sees the drops of blood and frantically runs her hands over Claire, checking for nonexistent injuries, but her father sighs and looks at her sadly. _Probably just a hangnail, Sandra,_ he says. _You know how Claire bites her nails._

Right. A hangnail. What she saw…she just didn't get enough sleep last night, that's all. She and Jackie had stayed up with a pile of Gilmore Girls DVDs until the dawn peeked over the horizon, and…that's all it was. TV and caffeine overdose.

Claire's mother says nothing more, just hugs her tightly and nods when her dad tells her that she doesn't have to help cook anymore if she doesn't want to.

--

The second time, she's fifteen and on a field trip to the Natural History Museum. Their class is on a guided tour, grouped together with a class of seniors – _seniors_! – and she and Jackie huddle together at the edge of the crowd, giggling and watching the older girls toss their hair and smirk at the boys.

Jackie's hair is short, barely reaching her shoulders, and still an unfortunate washed out brown, the result of a failed attempt to reach a Kate Beckinsale-worthy shade of brunette. She'd rescued an old, expired tube of lip gloss from the bottom of her sister's dresser drawer that morning, and the sticky pink was smeared over her mouth unevenly. _When we're seniors, we'll be just like them,_ she whispered to Claire, breath smelling of bubblegum. _We'll both have long hair like theirs, and we'll be co-captains of the cheerleading squad, and all the boys will go crazy for us. Won't it be great?_

Claire blushes, watching one of the older girls steal a kiss from her gangly boyfriend. _Sure,_ she says, tugging on the long, thick braid that her wild mane of blonde had been wrestled into. _It'll be amazing._ Jackie narrows her eyes slightly at her.

The tour guide leads the group around a corner and Claire breaks off. _Bathroom,_ she says quickly. Jackie shrugs and rolls her eyes.

She walks over to a railing next to a wall display of fossils, or something, and leans over, looking down over the edge. She can see the other three floors of the museum down below her in the open balcony style, and down down, what seems like miles, is the floor. She squints and thinks she sees a piece of gum stuck to the linoleum.

It's that being Jackie's friend is just so _hard_ sometimes, and she feels kind of like one of those pieces of coal that the tour guide was just talking about, the ones that are buried so far underground that the pressure is so great that it ends up turning it into something completely different. Claire feels a little bit like that piece of coal, only she's not so sure that what she's turning into is a diamond.

So she's thinking about coal and lip gloss and senior cheerleaders when a rush of cool breeze floats up from the open space, and she leans over to capture it, and almost doesn't flinch when a jostle from a stranger sends her toppling over the edge.

It's a hard impact, but it doesn't hurt, and when she opens her eyes, she doesn't understand why she hears screaming. Except when she sits up and sees her leg pointing the wrong way, she starts screaming too.

There are people milling around her now, talking and staring at her with horrified and pitiful eyes, and all she can think of is her class, still on that tour, and how she hopes they don't come down here to see her like this. God, she'd be so embarrassed.

There's a man that pushes his way through the crowd, eyes wide and face pale. He tells everyone to _step back_ and _call 911,_ and he kneels down and tells her not to move, that he's a doctor and he's going to help her.

He asks her if anything hurts and she shakes her head no. His face crinkles into this strange, worried expression and says, _you're in shock, maybe. Just don't move, I'm going to help you. Just lay back down._

He helps her lay back down, and she tries to tell him that she's fine, that nothing hurts, because he's looking at her with a vaguely terrified look on his face. Really, what's the big deal? She's more humiliated at this point than anything else, because how many people saw her fall? Jeez, what a graceful move that was.

Her leg doesn't hurt at all, but it looks gross, sticking out all weird like that, so she turns her face toward the doctor guy instead. He's running his hands over her neck, his face chalk white.

_What's your name, darlin'?_ he asks.

_Claire._

_Claire, can you tell me what year it is?_

She rolls her eyes. _2000._

_How many fingers, Claire?_ He holds up three fingers.

_Three,_ she repeats blandly. He frowns and runs a hand over her neck again, and that's getting a little creepy. _Could you stop touching my neck? I'm fine._

His face gets a little paler, if at all possible, and he swallows several times before answering. _Claire, honey, your neck is broken._

_What?_ That's ridiculous. She wants to laugh. _You're crazy,_ she says.

_No,_ he says. It's then that she notices the rest of the crowd, staring at her with wide, scared eyes. She hears someone sobbing, and a mother to the left of her vision has got her hands around her son's face, clutching him tightly.

There are tears in her eyes. _What's happening to me?_

The doctor, the kind old doctor, isn't touching her neck anymore. He's not touching her at all, instead he's standing and backing away from her. _I don't know._

--

The next thing she remembers after that is waking in the hospital, and her father – _oh, Daddy._

_You fell off the first floor balcony, Claire-bear,_ he says, voice firm with a wavering undertone to it. _Your wrist is broken, but other than that, the doctors say you're fine. You're very lucky, Claire, that your tour group was on the first floor._

No, she wants to say. That's not right, I was on the fourth floor. I remember counting the numbers in that huge elevator, because I was pressed up next to Mike Brennan, who smells like fish – and I _fell_, Daddy, and that doctor said I broke my neck, and everyone was scared of me and I think there's something wrong with me, Daddy, something's not right –

But the words cut off in her throat, dry as sandpaper. Instead she merely nods and accepts her father's hug, catching a glimpse of a tall, dark man disappearing from the doorway of her hospital room.

Three weeks later, she sees that doctor, the one who'd helped her, at the mall with his family. She goes up to him, wanting to thank him, but when he looks at her with blank eyes and tells her _I think you've got me confused with someone else, darlin' _– that's when she starts to suspect.

--

For awhile, she thinks she might be crazy. Hallucinations don't happen to teenagers from small towns in Texas, they happen to drug addicts and psychotic serial killers. She's imagining things like horrible wounds and bloody accidents that never happened, and teenagers from small towns in Texas don't fantasize or imagine things like breaking their own necks or conversations with doctors that never happened.

She thinks that maybe she's suicidal, like that junior girl Rachel who changed her name to Raquella and now wears all black clothes with thick eyeliner, even in the midst of summer. So she steals one of her dad's shavers and pries the blade from the holder. She sits on the edge of her bathtub and stares at it, trying to figure out if she wants to use it or not. She holds it against the skin of her wrist, her throat, her stomach, but she feels only the cool steel. No creepy thoughts, no urge to press and cut and maim. No dark shadows or depressing music. Just an overwhelming feeling of awkwardness. She puts the razor back in her parents' shower, feeling stupid.

But on the first day of her sophomore year, she's sitting in the gym for the opening year assembly. It's hot and boring, but she's in the last row, her back practically pressed up against the cool, cement wall. She looks down at her feet and notices a mouse trap sitting in the corner, one of the heavy duty ones she sees in the paper warehouses when she goes with her dad to work.

It's easy, so easy, to slip her foot out of her sandal and press firmly on the disc of metal that she knows will set off the trap. The click and whoosh of the trap is too soft for anyone but her to hear, but the guy next to her does hear the quick intake of breath she makes when the metal slams down on Claire's big toe, again, mostly from the sound of the bone crunching rather than any pain.

_Are you okay?_ he asks. Claire snaps her head over to look at him, vaguely remembering him from a class at some point. She vaguely remembers his name. Mac?

_I'm fine,_ she snaps. It's Zach, she remembers now. _Leave me alone._

He scoffs, face hardening. He turns back to the front, shaking his head, and crouches as far away from her as he can while still sitting in his chair.

Claire turns back to her foot, reaching down surreptitiously to pry the metal contraption away from her toe. She watches with teary eyes as the bloody mass that once was her big toe slowly knits itself back together, leaving red-stained but healthy skin behind.

She throws the trap aside and stuffs her foot back into her sandal. She bites and tears at her nails for the rest of the assembly.

--

She pushes it to the back of her mind. It's sophomore year, after all, and she's old enough to try out for the cheerleading squad now. Jackie spends a lot of time talking about _appearances_ now, and how certain things will look to the popular kids. She ditches the pink backpack she carried around forever in favor of a trendy, camouflage messenger bag that barely holds all her makeup, let alone her books. Claire reluctantly gives up her own teddy bear backpack in favor of a shoulder bag of her own, flinching when Jackie rolls her eyes disdainfully.

_You've had that thing since like, fifth grade, Claire. God, it's so kiddie I want to puke._

Jackie talks about their status as high schoolers as if it's some sort of sacred club that they've finally gained entrance to. _Gilmore Girls, Claire? Jeez, we're in _high school _now. Don't you think it's time to spend our time doing something a little more productive?_

Like what? Claire wonders. All Jackie does nowadays is practice her cheers and her makeup. It doesn't seem very productive to her.

As it turns out, she has a biology class with that Zach kid, from the day in assembly, and right before the first quiz of the year the teacher pairs them up for a study assignment. He looks grumpy and slams his book down in the desk next to hers, and she thinks back to what she'd said and feels a little guilty. So she smiles and lets him use her notes, which are a lot better than his, and helps him remember the difference between _kingdom_ and _phylum. _He's sulky at first, but the next day after class he shows her his quiz, where a giant red B is printed at the top, and says, _who knew blonde cheerleaders could study? I learn something new everyday._

She punches his shoulder. _I'm not a cheerleader yet._

At lunch, she invites Zach to sit with her and Jackie, and he spends the entire period making her laugh by retelling last night's episode of Third Watch in a hillbilly accent. Jackie spends the whole time looking around frantically, and she doesn't laugh once.

After Zach leaves, Jackie pulls her aside and asks her just what the hell she thinks she's doing.

_Making a friend?_ Claire guesses. She never knows exactly what to say when Jackie gets angry at her.

_What do you think _I've_ been working on?_ Jackie whines. _Look, if you want to get on the squad, you can't be seen with people like him. _

_People like who? _

Jackie looks at her as if she's just declared that shoulder pads have come back into style. _You can't be serious,_ Jackie says incredulously. _He's a nerd!_ Claire frowns, and Jackie huffs impatiently. _If you wanna hang out with him, fine. But don't expect me to sit with you at lunch anymore. And don't even get your hopes up about making the squad. _Jackie storms off in a cloud of body spray.

--

The following week, they try out for the squad. Jackie makes it. Claire doesn't.

The next morning when Zach shows up at her locker with his older brother's old Bio notes in tow, she slams the locker door shut and ignores him. She studiously keeps her gaze on the hall in front of her, chin held high, hearing him call her name, first in confusion, then in anger.

It isn't until she reaches her next class that she notices the huge bruise on her wrist. She watches it disappear, and rubs it on her jeans, hoping no one will notice the blood that comes from nowhere.

--

She's been doing a pretty good job, she thinks. She stays away from sharp objects and busy streets, and Lyle teases her sometimes about being a scaredy cat, but she knows he'd be much more terrified if she were to slip up, so she clutches onto his hand tightly and runs across intersections as if chased by a ghost.

And she's popular, now, really popular. It doesn't really matter that she's not on the squad, because Jackie is, and having a best friend with high status is a huge asset. She goes to parties and chats with all the right people, stroking egos and cutting people down when she has to, and before she knows it she can't walk down the hall at school without being stopped by someone. It's distracting and busy and incredibly, fantastically _normal_. Her thoughts are filled by spirit cookies and dance decoration committees, and broken bones and hallucinations never cross her thoughts.

Then suddenly, it's her junior year of high school, she's sixteen and Jackie flounces into her room with a cheerleading uniform and scathing commentary about Lori Trammel – and her vision is complete. _I'm in? Are you kidding?_

Jackie smirks, and somehow, the expression is still mean. _Claire, destiny is calling you._

But a stupid fight leads into broken glass and a trip to the ER, and as Claire clutches her bloody hand, slowly knitting back together beneath the dish towel her mother has wrapped around it, a feeling of dread settles in her stomach, unlike anything she's ever felt before. Jackie's in the seat beside her, guilty doe eyes skittering away from her whenever Claire turns to look at her.

_Destiny is calling you._

--


	2. 2

2/4

--

Claire finally stops pretending on a Friday.

She's stayed late after school, hanging up streamers for the First Week Dance – a pointless exercise, considering that Homecoming is in a month, but she has responsibilities, nonetheless. That doesn't mean that she can't be pissed off that Jackie totally bailed on her, though.

She's reaching up high to attach the end of a streamer to the corner of the bleachers when her stepladder wobbles and the cracking of wood reaches her ears. She knows what will happen a split second before it does, and vaguely hears a voice cry out loudly as the leg of the ladder gives way and she crashes headfirst into the bleachers, the crunch of wood and bone splitting the silence.

She hits the ground hard and there's sticky wetness all over her face, and she hears someone babbling. Before she can say anything to calm down whoever it is, the voice cuts off, and Claire knows they must be seeing her head wound disappear.

She waits until the strange, prickly sensation of her wound dissipates completely before reaching up and wiping the blood away from her eyes with her sleeve. She blinks up at her witness and sighs. _Don't freak out,_ she says.

_Holy shit. _Zach's eyes are wide, and he takes an uncertain step backward. _Claire, what – _

_Just don't freak,_ she repeats. _Look, you can't tell anyone, okay?_

_Tell anyone what? _Zach's voice is incredulous. _What the hell was that? I don't understand._

_Join the club._

_­_--

_Maybe it was a fluke,_ Zach says. They're walking slowly, though it's more like Claire walking and Zach following her. _Maybe – maybe we're both just…_

_Tired?_ Claire suggests. _High on caffeine and Gilmore Girls?_

_What?_

_Nothing._ Claire wipes at her forehead again, hating the sweaty, sticky feeling. _Just forget about this, Zach. You don't wanna know._

_Yes I do,_ he says. _There's something going on here, Claire._

It turns out that that's all that Claire needed, and she stops short in the middle of the street. There is something going on. Yes, there really is.

Zach helps her sit down on the curb, looking at her worriedly, and she wants to laugh because twenty minutes ago she had a gaping wound on her forehead and now he's helping her sit, like she has the vapors or something.

_Has it always been like this? _he asks.

_I guess. _Claire frowns. _I don't know anything. I don't know who I am. _

_Do your parents know?_

_No._

_You should ask them. _Zach is remarkably calm. _If you have it, then…maybe they do, too._

_I'm adopted, _Claire says idly, then stops. _Wait, I'm adopted._ The revelation strikes her and thrills and depresses her all at once. _Oh my God._

Zach shakes his head. _Cheerleaders,_ he says wryly. _They're so slow on the uptake._

--

She gets an idea. It's not a fully formed one, but it's an idea, and the next morning at school she pulls Zach aside and asks if he has a video camera. He frowns and shrugs, says he uses one for A/V club. Claire snorts and makes a sarcastic comment, whirling and striding off before he can catch enough breath for a retort.

She shows up at his house after school, still in her uniform from practice. She pounds on his door like a madwoman, and feels slightly chagrined when his mother wrenches the door open and looks at Claire as if she's a piece of dirt stuck to her shoe. She shrugs and smiles her popularity smile and tells Zach's mother that she needs to borrow her son for an English project and could you please remind him to bring his video camera?

She feels slightly hysterical, dragging her almost-sorta-kinda-friend along by his collar, searching through her garage for weapons. She's tired of guessing, tired of not knowing, and the scene from her bathroom is prominent in her mind, sitting on her bathtub and working up the courage to cut herself.

She finds a handgun in her dad's toolbox, and she shakes her head, remembering the fight her parents had had about it. Protection, her dad had said. At the time, Claire was confused as to what exactly it was her father thought they needed protecting from. But right now, she doesn't care what it's for, as long as it's there.

Zach looks even more wary at the sight of the gun that he did before, but he follows her without question. She goes with a single-minded determination that surprises her, dragging him out to the empty cornfield down the street from her house. She cocks the gun and tells Zach to turn on the camera.

_Whoa, whoa, Claire. Hold on a second – _

Claire just looks at him. _Turn it on, Zach._

His eyebrows pinch together and his face flashes with fear, but he uncaps the lens and switches on the camera, pointing it on her figure with shaky hands.

It feels incredibly heavy in her hands, heavier than she thought it would. She starts to point it at her head but chickens out, going for her stomach instead. She fumbles with the trigger and this is her first time shooting much of anything, let alone a handgun, so she's unprepared for the backlash, and she accidentally jerks the nozzle to the left slightly, so the bullet slices cleanly through her shoulder instead of her stomach like it was intended to.

She hits the ground and hears Zach cry out, but she can already feel the wound receding when he reaches her. _Keep the camera on! _she cries, struggling to stand. _On my shoulder._

Zach gulps and focuses the shot on her shoulder, capturing every second of the wound knitting back together, disappearing in front of their eyes.

Claire takes a deep breath and looks straight at the lens. _This is Claire Bennet,_ she says. _And that was my first attempt._

--

It becomes a bit of a sick thrill after the first couple times. They run out of methods pretty quick – who knew how hard it could be to think of ways to kill yourself – and Zach ends up consulting his sci-fi novels for ideas. Claire spends Labor Day weekend jumping in front of a train, stabbing herself with a kitchen knife, electrocuting herself with a hairdryer and jumping over the side of a dam.

Attempt number six, a leap off a high scaffold in the middle of nowhere, ends as all the others do, with a bloody and disheveled Claire standing and walking away as if nothing happens, and she starts to wonder why Zach isn't running away yet. He treats the thing like something straight out of a comic book, and he doesn't get it. Not really. Mostly, she thinks, because it isn't happening to him.

She doesn't know why she's doing this with him, anyway. She doesn't know a lot of things.

One thing she really doesn't know, for instance, is where the sudden superhero impulse came from. It's not like she planned on any grand heroic gestures; it's not like she really thought about it at all. She was never the saver, only the saved. She's never taken care of anyone in her life, other than herself. But there's something inside her chest that tugs and pulls, and really in the end there is only one choice.

The man's name is Joseph Wellman, she finds out later. She reads the article in the Odessa Herald over eggs and bacon, and traces the guy's picture with a fingernail.

When her mother walks in, she pretends she's looking at the movie reviews.

--

Well, damn it. She probably should've thought of this.

_Girls! This isn't a…criminal investigation. Nobody here is in any kind of trouble. Quite the contrary._ The Sheriff of Odessa, Texas is kind of a putz, Claire thinks. He keeps touching his belt, which is sort of weird. _There just happens to be a very grateful man lying in the hospital who'd like to thank one of you for…saving his life yesterday._

Claire says nothing, melting into the line of red and white and tan. Jackie, beside her, fidgets.

Principal Marks has always seemed nice to Claire, as nice as a high school principal could be. She almost feels sorry for him, he looks so bewildered. _I've never seen anyone so reluctant to be called a hero. You're sure it was one of our cheerleaders?_

_The uniform said Union Wells High. _The fireman guy squints at the line of cheerleaders, and Claire cringes inwardly. _I'd have to say it was…her on the end._

Oh, shit. _That's Claire Bennet!_

_Claire, where'd you go yesterday after cheerleading practice?_

Shit, shit, shit. _Uh…_

_It wasn't her._ Claire jumps, and looks over at Jackie, who plasters a smile on her face and steps forward. _It was me. I was taking a shortcut home from school, and…I saw the wreckage of the train…wreck. And…I just had to help._

Claire stares at her best friend incredulously. Is she kidding?

_Why didn't you say something?_

_I guess I didn't want all the attention, you know? _Jackie smiles, sweet as sugar. My God, she's just pulling this from her ass, isn't she? _That's not why I did it._

People swarm over and suddenly it's a Jackie sandwich. Claire watches her carefully, and there's a second when Jackie catches her eye, and a hard look comes over her friend's face.

Claire says nothing.

--

Things start happening quickly. What Claire knows and what she doesn't soon isn't as clear as it was before, and hard truths, truths she thought she could always count on suddenly don't seem so reliable anymore. Her father, mother, brother, friends, life, all of it quickly becomes irrelevant. Shadows of a dream that she never really had or wanted in the first place, and Claire finds herself dreading each and every morning, yearning more and more to surrender to a lifetime of sleep. Just…fuzzy white oblivion. No cheerleading, no lying, no pretending. Just existing.

Everywhere she turns, there's another lie, another cloud of mist obscuring her vision until she's stumbling around, barely managing to keep her footing among the phantom hands that claw at her feet, ghoulish laughter floating up to her ears as invisible assailants wait for her to fall.

Her life is a house of cards, carefully and methodically built on a table of deception. She tiptoes around the structure, knowing every second that it was a second away from falling, and trying with all her might to keep it standing. She may be indestructible, but the ones she loves are not. And that's the thing that really worries her.

--

Then, she slams into her destiny. Literally, because she's hurrying toward the locker rooms because she's late and not looking, and she didn't expect anyone to be in the hallway anyway. _Oh, sorry!_

_That was my fault, I wasn't looking where I was going._ She shrugs and smiles. Her destiny is cute, with comic book hair and a trenchcoat. He definitely isn't from around here. He looks windswept, almost as if he rode here with his head out of the window. Maybe he did.

_Hey, do you know this girl, Jackie Wilcox?_

Oh, well, of course. _Uh yeah, half-time show starts in about five minutes. She'll be out on the field. She's a cheerleader._ He's got a nice smile, she notices. _Are you a reporter or something?_

_Alumni. _Lie. She's getting good at spotting them. _I'm just curious._

Whatever. _You know, between you and me, she's not that special. Just your average teenage girl._

He tilts his head slightly. _She rushed into a fire and saved a man's life, that sounds kinda special to me._

She wants to know his name, but knows better than to ask. _Yeah, you're right. I'm jealous. She's our town hero. Me? I don't win too many popularity contests._

She kind of figured that he'd stop her from walking away on that line. _Hey, it gets better!_

_What?_

_Life after high school. It gets a lot better._ Does graduation disqualify you from the American Society of Unkillable Freak Shows?

Well, no. But at least she wouldn't have to deal with Algebra anymore.

--

Jackie's a bitch, she decides.

She's always kinda known it, even before the whole popularity thing and the attention hound thing and now the Brody thing. But now, the Zach thing, that's really the last straw. Things are sucky enough without the co-captain from hell insulting the person who has quickly become her only link to sanity.

But as Jackie dangles from the hands of a killer, Claire can't seem to care about any of it.

_Run._

Claire thinks of Gilmore Girls and lip gloss and obeys.

--

Peter. His name is Peter. Funny, she doesn't think he looks like a Peter. A Robert, maybe, or a Daniel.

But no, it's Peter. Peter Petrelli, brother to that Senator guy, the one that her mother thinks looks like a young Cary Grant. But the other Petrelli is shorter and paler, his jaw less defined and his shoulders less broad. She guesses that if she saw them standing together she would notice the differences and the similarities plainly. But all she can remember are his hands on her arms, steady and strong. His voice. _Don't worry about me, just go!_

And really, his shoulders hadn't seemed all that bad to her.

Peter Petrelli quickly becomes a beacon in her head, a symbol more than anything. She barely has time to even meet him before they're whisked away into their separate lives, but she keeps that name firmly in her head. Peter Petrelli. Peter Petrelli. Peter Petrelli. It's a mantra, or a prayer, or more like a sigh of relief.

She's not alone anymore.

--


	3. 3

3

--

Claire is unprepared for the sky to explode.

In her mind, she never actually believed it would happen, she thinks. All the talk of 'it's gonna be me,' and 'gotta leave the city' and 'end of the world,' and somewhere in her head she still always thought of it as a lie, a storyline from a comic book. Maybe it's a leftover from so much time with Zach, maybe it's just because all of it is just _so insane,_ she doesn't care. Oh, okay, my dad just got shot. My biological father is a Congressman. Peter's my uncle, and now we're running from the FBI because he's gonna blow up the city. Whatever.

But in a way it hurts more because of it, the jolt, the spark, the wave of heat, the blinding light. How could it not hurt more when for all the times she was warned, she still truly didn't see it coming?

Her father's arms lock solidly around her waist and pull her back from the Plaza, away from the strange woman and her bleeding husband, from the little girl and the guy with the strange accent. Claire gasps for air and collapses to her knees, her father's hands on the back of her neck.

_You're in shock. Breathe, Claire-bear. Breathe._

She barely hears him over the roar of the city in her head. Her vision expands, then narrows to a single, grey dot, and noises rise until all she can hear is people shouting, car horns honking, shuffling, walking, running, living, busy busy New York action.

Peter loves the city, she knows. In the week she'd stayed at the Petrelli mansion, he'd taken her out on the streets whenever being there got to be too much. He bought her an authentic street vendor hot dog and a small keychain with a New York City teddy bear charm on it. They'd made an attempt at the Met, both of them pretending to be interested until she'd caught him dozing off in front of a Manet. He'd laughed and taken her to Bloomingdale's instead. She'd bought a scarf, blood red with lines of black silk.

_Aren't you scared?_ she'd asked him.

The sky was raining fire. Petrelli fire. Peter and Nathan fire. Not her family, but…something…else. Something.

_Terrified,_ he'd admitted. _But…not, at the same time. You know?_

Claire knows.

--

_Let's go home,_ her father had said. _Home is anywhere our family is together._

Well, yeah. Okay.

They stop in Odessa first, for a month. Appearances must be kept, after all, and Claire winds up giving over-rehearsed speeches to her teachers about her extended vacation in Aspen. To recover – from Jackie, and that terrible chemical fire at her house, of course. They tut and shake their heads. Such a pretty girl with such horrible luck. What's the world coming to, anyway?

Somehow, Claire isn't surprised when she finds that Zach has forgotten, again. She almost doesn't have the energy to start a new round of memories, but she drags him around to the familiar spots all the same. New start, new memories, new tape.

After the familiar questions and freaking out ends, Zach is urgent, pressing her for answers and knowledge. Where did she go? She wasn't in Aspen, was she? What happened? Wait – New York? You weren't there for that freaky radioactive explosion, were you? Oh my God. That is so _cool._

His excitement gives her something new to think about, at any rate. And it's almost a strange kind of comfort to be hiding something from her father again. Not that she thinks he'd really care much, but the reflex is familiar. Claire values familiarity highly these days.

There's a box of things recovered from the fire. Her box is slightly bigger than Lyle's just because of the proximity of her room and the kitchen, where the explosion was located. The first thing she sees is Meredith's Mexican necklace, the jewelry that had once meant so much more to her than it was. It's charred and the chain is broken, and Claire fingers it for a moment before passing it off to the secretary at the fire station. _I don't need it anymore,_ she says.

Still, she visits Meredith, for closure, she guesses, and finds an empty trailer. She'd left behind a phone number, though when Claire calls it Meredith's voice is empty and airy, claiming that she'd never had a daughter and she has no clue what Claire is talking about. _Oh, honey, I think you've got me confused with someone else._

Right. Claire's really sick and tired of hearing people say that to her.

She finishes out her junior year (isn't it strange, to go from saving the world to Chemistry tests?) and they quickly leave Texas behind. The saddest thing about it is that Claire can't wait to leave.

Zach hugs her at the airport and gives her a graphic novel about the X-Men to read on the plane. _For inspiration,_ he says.

Strangely, tears spring to Claire's eyes, which startles her. She hasn't cried since Kirby Plaza. _Thank you,_ she says. _Don't forget about me, okay?_

_Third time's the charm._ He winks, then Dad pulls her through the gates and he's gone.

She wonders idly if she'll ever see him again. Part of her knows she won't.

--

They tell Mom and Lyle what happened on the plane. Claire is a bit reluctant about this, of telling them at all, and the method. But apparently, planes are safe. The noise makes it safe from electronics, the height makes it safe from…other things. Claire thinks of Nathan and isn't so sure.

Her father speaks in general terms, specifying nothing. _We were in New York when the explosion happened. Claire was with her biological family, who were involved. What she can do…it had something to do with it. She's fine, though, she was never in any danger._

Well. At least Claire can tell when her father's lying now.

Her mother cries. Lyle backs into the furthest corner of his seat and looks down at his hands. Claire is reminded of that day with Zach in assembly.

_She was very brave._ Her father's voice is proud, slightly choked, and Claire feels intensely ashamed all of a sudden. _She did everything right. She's a hero._

_Oh, honey._ Her mom hugs her. Claire wants to pull away and slap her. Stop doing that. Stop. Claire didn't do anything. She pointed a gun and lost her courage. That's it.

Later, Lyle starts looking at her again. _So…you're like a superhero mutant, then huh? _Lyle indicates the X-Men comic, sitting on her fold-down tray.

_No._ She recoils. _No, I'm not anything. I'm just a girl._

_That's not how Mom and Dad see it. _There's just enough bitterness in his voice for Claire to feel guilty.

_No, they don't. _Claire can lie, too.

--

California isn't at all like The OC, she learns.

Their name is different. They're the Wells family, from Houston. On her school papers, she has to remember to write _Claire Wells._ She doesn't want to think about whether her automatic response would be Bennet or Petrelli.

Her father is different, now. He treats her like an adult, an equal. They spend long nights in the living room, glued to the television, watching CNN and MSNBC and looking out for mention of Congressman Petrelli or the businessman from Vegas, Linderman.

He tells her of the Company and its beginnings, and Claire slowly starts to understand him as a person, rather than a father. She thinks that it's a painful pedestal to fall from, especially in such a jarring way as Noah Bennet did. She also thinks that it's the hardest part of having children, the moment when you realize that half their love is instinctual, mandatory, and what happens when that illusion is ripped away? What happens when they're old enough to understand words like 'adoption' and 'ability' and 'biological?'

So it's different, but not worse. She feels like she's been clawing away at this relationship, ripping away layer after layer until finally finding something real. Something she's willing to fight for.

It's about two weeks into the new school year when he finds something. She isn't really sure what, but it's a testament to the new level of trust and respect that he lets her come with him.

A hospital, in New Jersey. A delirious, rambling Nathan Petrelli. Claire walks into the room and promptly backs right back out to catch her breath.

He clutches at her arm, and she thinks he remembers her until his eyes fog over and he starts calling her _Heidi._ She brushes off her father's hands and lets him hug her, whispering things that make no sense into his ear.

It's a real hug this time, not the staged stiffness that were his sparse hugs in New York. He clutches to her tightly, and she thinks she realizes, a little, why Peter loves him so much.

She wants so badly to ask him about Peter, but his face is dark from soot and tears and she knows he doesn't know anyway. She takes his hand and looks over at Noah Bennet, her question in her face. She doesn't even have to say it.

--

They stay in Jersey for four weeks while Nathan recovers. At some point, her father takes care of the paperwork, inventing a name and a cover for him, so as to avoid publicity. Even now, the television is flashing his picture at every news hour, desperate for information on the freshman Senator's disappearance. Claire thanks the heavens that nobody recognized him during the two days he was in the hospital.

He regains his senses slowly. One week in, he says her name and Claire jumps up, nerves jolted. But then he says Meredith's name too, and she realizes he's just rambling. She goes back to her book, surprised to realize that she's disappointed.

Every night, he awakes screaming. Claire and her father sit with him most nights until the nightmares cease, and after that only Claire sits with him. She thinks her father knows, but understands, in a way.

It's strange, being in such close proximity to both Nathan and Noah. Her two fathers, both so special to her in such different ways. She can't pretend to be repulsed or disdainful of Nathan anymore, not after Kirby Plaza. Not after he came around, in the end. Not after he told her that the future wasn't set in stone. She's so damn proud of him she could burst.

After a month, Nathan wakes up one day and asks about Peter.

_He's…_ Claire stammers. Noah is out, getting food, and she was blissfully immersed in Kurt Vonnegut when Nathan had suddenly appeared in the bedroom doorway of the hotel room. _I don't know where he is, Nathan._

He sways on his feet. His lips barely move when he speaks. _Claire?_

She stands, book falling from her hands. _Yeah. Yeah, it's me._

A look of desperation comes across his features and she takes an involuntary step forward. _What…what happened?_

_Oh, Nathan. _She initiates the hug this time, and he accepts it. _Peter…the sky exploded. You saved us._

His entire body is so tense she can feel him shaking from it. _No, I didn't,_ he says.

--

That night, they talk about Peter.

_I don't remember,_ Nathan chokes out. _I can't…after I spoke to you…there's just nothing._ Claire shoots a startled look at Noah and automatically thinks of the Haitian. She's so sick and tired of people forgetting things.

_That's normal,_ her father assures. _After a traumatic experience. In the hospital, you were delirious. You're still weak, even now. It will take a while for your memories to return._ Claire almost believes him.

_So there's a chance that Peter's alive, isn't there? _Claire asks hopefully, after Nathan has succumbed to exhaustion once more.

_Maybe._ Her father's voice is hesitant. _Please don't get your hopes up, Claire-bear. We don't know anything for sure._

--

It's getting to be November when Nathan brings up the concept of his family.

_I have to see my wife,_ he says, with a startling look of guilt to Claire. _Heidi…she must be worried sick. My boys…_

Noah nods solemnly. _We'll get you back to New York. But we need a plan._

They end up dropping him off in the Bronx. The next morning there's breaking news on the television, the heroic story of the freshman Congressman and his struggle with his brother's disappearance. Claire shakes her head. There's no way that Nathan wouldn't be elected to anything he runs for, now.

_Senator Petrelli regrets handling the situation poorly._ Claire is only mildly surprised that Nathan isn't up at the podium, weaving this story himself. Of course, after Kirby Plaza…well, things are different. _His brother Peter has been missing for almost six months, and the Senator needed some time to grieve and be with family. He is holding out hope for Peter to be found, but right now, the Senator and his family are focused on moving on._

Claire shuts the TV off and throws her Kurt Vonnegut novel at the wall.

--

They're back in California and now, Claire hates it.

She feels a pull from somewhere, not quite New York and definitely not Odessa. She doesn't belong in the sunny plastic of LA, as safely anonymous as it is.

She dreams of Peter every night. Nathan is there too, most of the time, and every morning she wakes up with images of dark hair and fear and red stairs that lead to nowhere. One night, she dreams of the explosion, except this time it's her that Nathan flies away, leaving Peter to blow up in the middle of the city. She dreams of Peter-pieces splattering on the clouds, and wakes up scrambling for the bathroom before she pukes her guts out on her new bedspread.

She calls Zach once, mostly because she feels like she should, though she doesn't particularly want to talk to him. After she greets him enthusiastically, there's a moment of silence before his incredulous voice. _Claire Bennet? What…what do _you _want?_

She hangs up on him, slamming down the phone angrily. Third time's the charm her ass.

She starts the suicide attempts again. She doesn't find a new friend to let in on the secret, and so she tries it by herself. Sets up a tripod like Zach had suggested so many times and films herself jumping off roofs. It gets to be too dangerous when someone sees her fiddling with the tape and asks her about it, and so she stops filming it and just starts being reckless instead. She gets into fights at school and follows gang members into alleyways. She thinks her father knows, but he doesn't say anything so she keeps doing it.

There's something clean and refreshing about dying. She wakes up, wounds closing, blood smeared all over her clothes and feels her skin itch and tingle. It's like becoming a new person every night. Every time she looks in the mirror she sees the same features, the same face and hair and eyes and lips, but every time, it's different, in a much more subtle way.

Nathan calls her about three weeks after they'd left him in New York. They talk, mostly about Peter, and it's actually pleasant. He tells her stories of when he was little, of he and Peter playing tricks at their parents' fancy parties. Of Peter convincing Nathan, subsequently getting into trouble, and of Nathan subsequently getting them out of trouble, every time. She thinks that for all his faults, Nathan was a good brother. She also thinks that this is what she kind of wanted, ever since her father told her she was adopted. These are the things she wanted to know.

She tells Nathan about the dying thing, surprising herself. He doesn't try to talk her out of it, or even scold her, which she's grateful for. He seems to understand that what she needs is not a father, or even an authoritative figure. He doesn't press her for information on his life, rather he calls with some strange excuse, then proceeds to just chat with her for an hour or so. It's light and it makes Claire happy on some level.

She thinks about what it means, kind of. She thinks about it a lot, in fact, it seems that it's all that she thinks about these days. She thinks about Nathan and Meredith, about Nathan and Heidi, about Peter and Nathan, about her and Nathan and Peter. She thinks about Nathan's phone calls, and she thinks about what he probably told his wife. She thinks about just how little she knows about Peter, compared to just how much she misses him. She thinks about _you know, I finally felt like I was a part of something when I met you,_ and _it's funny, I felt the same way when I met you._

She thinks about how, if it weren't for Peter, she probably wouldn't be talking to Nathan at all.

--


	4. 4

4

--

She's getting really good at lying. Better than her dad. Better than Nathan. She has a twisted sort of pride about it.

She searches for every detail she can find about Kirby, including the short glimpses of the other players she'd seen. She hunts down news articles, what little useful information that there was in the New York Post and web news sites. She finds the name of the man that was shot – DL Hawkins – and his family, Niki and Micah Sanders. She remembers the police officer, Matt Parkman, and finds with a jolt that he was admitted to the ICU at Sacred Heart Hospital that night, though the short article on him doesn't say what for. Most of what she finds is articles on the disappearance of Linderman, and the mysterious circumstances surrounding. She knows by now that Linderman's dead, so she doesn't pay much attention to that.

What she's most interested in, however, is the little girl, who was with the dark skinned man. She hunts and hunts and still finds nothing. She thinks of asking her father, even knows in some sense that he'd help her if he knew, which he probably does, but she recoils at the thought of him discovering just how obsessive she's become.

She searches every corner of the Internet, she calls Matt Parkman's wife and gets hung up on, she mentions it to Nathan during one of his calls – which of course is useless – and still finds nothing of anyone other than her and her father, the Petrellis, the Sanders family and Matt Parkman in the Plaza that night.

She knows there's more going on here. She _knows _it.

She thinks of the "tracking system" and the pained look on her father's face the one time she'd inquired about it. She remembers the look on the little girl's face in the split second Claire had seen her – afraid, but not, at the same time.

It feels vaguely like the search for her past, for her biological parents and her heritage. It's a purpose, something that gives her something to focus on other than inventing new and exciting ways to kill herself.

She finds Niki and Micah Sanders, at any rate. It's relatively easy, she's become well versed in the sciences of hiding. They're in Las Vegas, and Claire makes up a girl's weekend to San Francisco. There are people that she's friendly enough with that'll cover for her.

Her dad probably knows she's lying, but maybe not. After all, she did learn from the best.

--

She finds the house fairly easily. She goes at night, for a reason she can't identify. It's a nice neighborhood, but not the best, and there's a close call with a creepy drunk guy. Claire shakes him off, not even feeling the cut that's healing on her forehead.

The man opens the door – DL. He's tall and lean and solid, and his arm is in a sling, wincing as he opens the door with his good hand. He looks at her for a very long, extended moment, before shaking his head slightly and letting her in. _You know I know why you're here._

She smiles ruefully, and the first thing she sees is the woman.

Niki Sanders is ice and fire mixed together. A warrior and a mother. She looms tall in the doorway leading from the kitchen, and Claire knows she recognizes her.

Niki's voice is even and neutral. _You're alive. _

_So are you. _

_Yeah._ She smirks. _For now, anyway. _

Claire shrugs. _I'm Claire. _No last name. It's not like she would know which one to give, anyway.

_Niki. _She shrugs, flipping her hair over a shoulder. _Would you like to meet my son?_

Claire recognizes the respect in that offer; smiles and realizes that yes, she really would. _That'd be nice. _

And so Claire becomes a little less alone.

--

Micah Sanders is like the little brother she'd wished she could have, when she was younger and her mother had told her she was pregnant with Lyle. He's quiet and intelligent, and after an hour talking quietly with him in his room, Claire feels like he's her best friend. Maybe he is. He certainly understands her better than most of the friends she's ever had.

She spends the weekend with them, crashing on the couch instead of returning to her cheap motel, at Micah's insistence. She feels the same way she did upon meeting Peter in Odessa. Connected. Alive. Real. A part of something, something bigger than herself. She thinks – hopes, really – that they feel the same way. That Micah, at least, feels the same way.

Niki is a little vulnerable, a little crazy. Claire identifies with that. There are moments when she drifts off, staring into space, and a strange hardness comes over her face. She always comes out of it, though from the looks on Micah's and DL's faces whenever it happens, she thinks there might've been a time when she didn't.

DL is impossibly realistic. Every move he makes is connected, somehow, back to his family and their life. Surviving. Moving forward. Living. Keeping their heads above water. Claire imagines what he must've been like that night at Kirby, the night he was shot, and shivers. He's kind to her, though she can tell that he doesn't really know exactly why she's there, and that he doesn't really trust her. That's okay.

She waits until her last few hours in Las Vegas to ask about the little girl and the other man. DL frowns and thinks, but Niki instantly comes up with an answer.

_The little girl's name is Molly Walker,_ she says, rising from the table and retrieving her purse. _I don't know where she came from, but the man with her is…Mohinder Suresh. _She reads the name from a business card that she's dug from her wallet. _We went with them to the hospital that Matt Parkman was at. He paid for DL's surgery._

DL's expression is uncomfortable, and Claire thinks that he doesn't like the idea of someone paying for him. _He was a decent guy,_ is all he says.

Claire bites her lip. _Could I…could I contact him? It's just that…I'm trying to find somebody, somebody who was in the Plaza that night. _

Niki looks at her softly. _Nathan's alive,_ is all she says.

_I know,_ Claire says. _It's his brother…I already found Nathan. But Peter's still missing._ She hadn't really realized that Peter had been her goal until this moment. She isn't surprised, though.

Niki nods and hands her the card. _I hope you find him,_ she says kindly. Micah, in the corner, gives her a wink.

--

She flies back to California and barely makes it home in time to get ready for school. She avoids her father's glare and her mother's curious gaze and leaves the house quickly. She's not going to school, but she is going. She feels guilt attack and slide off her shoulders quickly.

Micah Sanders is more than a confidant and a comfort. He is generous and – well, smarter than shit – and this hadn't hit home for Claire as hard as it did when she'd discovered an address, phone number and Map Quest-ed directions to Mohinder Suresh's apartment in New York City, tucked into the outside pocket of her messenger bag. Not to mention the plane ticket. With an alias's name on it.

As soon as she hits the airport, she calls him. _You're a devious little thing, aren't you?_

Micah laughs. _Nope. Just good with computers. _

_How much do you know?_ Claire asks.

_I know you have a secret,_ he says. _I do, too. _

Claire smiles. _I figured. _

Micah is relatively a stranger, so she shouldn't miss him as much as she does when she can hear the smile in his voice. _Keep me updated. You've got my email, right? _

She chuckles. _I'll definitely keep you posted._

She hangs up and feels happy. It's a simple, strange feeling.

--

She finds Mohinder's apartment relatively easily. Not just because of Micah's directions, she likes to think, but because of her vague familiarity with the city. She connects most things she sees back to Peter – _Peter showed me that, _or _did Peter like that building? _or _was Peter ever here?_

She thinks that he was. Peter loved his city, after all.

As she ascends the stairs (elevator's broken) she wonders if she'll always be the one showing up at strangers' apartments. She thinks with fleeting resentment that once – just once – she'd like to be the one that someone is looking for.

Mohinder Suresh opens the door and doesn't look at all surprised to see her. _Thank God,_ he says. _I've been looking for you everywhere._

Well, then.

The girl is there, lying on a pull-out couch bed with an IV hooked up to her arm. Claire's heart thuds loudly, but she looks up and smiles so sweetly that Claire can't help but smile back.

_I tried calling your father,_ Mohinder is saying.

_You know my father?_ Claire asks, surprised. Then she backtracks and wonders if he means Noah or Nathan.

_Yes, well – _this man is impossibly British, she thinks. But he's from India – she's never met anyone from India before. Is this normal, or is Mohinder just…special? She could believe either choice.

_There's something that you need to know,_ Mohinder says slowly.

Claire is sitting next to Molly and staring at a large broken piece of plaster in the wall, as if somebody was thrown into it. She figures somebody probably was. _Well, what is it?_

Somebody grabs her from behind and she screams, jumping up, but Molly's laughing and Mohinder is rubbing his eyes and it's then that she hears his voice.

_Claire? Claire, it's me._

She backs up to the broken plaster, hands flattening against the dip in the wall. Her voice is a whisper.

_Peter?_

--

He's invisible. He's fucking invisible.

Claire really has to learn how to stop being surprised by stuff.

_I can't control any of it._ His voice floats over from somewhere near her left shoulder. She wishes, so desperately does she wish, that she could see his face. She wishes she had the courage to reach out and find him with her hands, to hug the air that he occupies. _I don't remember anything past Nathan showing up, just…Mohinder found me._

Mohinder smiles modestly at the gratefulness in his voice. _He was in a hospital in __Ohio__, of all places, _and Claire thinks of course he'd go father than Nathan did. _He was delirious at first. _

_Nathan was too,_ Claire says, and suddenly senses that Peter has snapped his eyes to look at her.

_You were the one that found Nathan?_ His voice is urgent.

_Yeah. He didn't tell you? _Silence, and Claire realizes that he hasn't told Nathan yet. _Peter._

_Yeah, I know._ Peter's voice hints at regret and something deeper, and Claire drops it

_Sensory overload,_ Mohinder says_. Peter's been through a traumatic experience, and as such, his control over his powers has been lost. It will come back in time as he heals._

There are tears in her eyes_. I knew you were alive,_ she says and _why didn't you find me?_

_Mohinder tried,_ Peter says_. I was too sick at first, but…we looked. We did. We couldn't find you. I hoped that it was a good thing, that your father had hidden you._

_He did, _Claire says, and in that instant knows that it was a purposeful action, moving their family to the furthest point in the country from New York that they could get_. I found Nathan, though. _

_Yes, you did._

--

She calls her father that night, when Mohinder and Molly are asleep and Peter – presumably – is in his room, which is actually just the bathroom. He's been sleeping with a blanket in the bathtub, and Claire shakes her head ruefully when he tells her that.

_Peter's alive,_ she tells her dad, almost accusingly_. I'm with him in New York_

Silence over the line_. Claire, come home._

She takes a deep breath, thinks of horn-rimmed glasses and gunshot wounds and pieces of memories floating away like smoke on the wind_. I love you Dad,_ she says_. But no._

_--_

Claire forces Peter to see Nathan the next morning.

_He's your brother!_ And she'd never thought she'd be the one defending Nathan this go around, but whatever. Life is screwy like that_. You've seen the news, he thinks you're dead._

_No, his publicists think I'm dead,_ Peter corrects, but there's a bit of longing and a bit of awe in his voice, and Claire realizes that he's afraid

_He's your brother, Peter,_ she says again, softly

She tries to imagine the expression he'd have on his face if he were visible.

She doesn't know exactly if he's following her as she strides down the street, but she hopes he is. She thinks he's honest enough to be. Then on the subway, she loses her confidence because she doesn't exactly remember where Nathan lives, and she hears a phantom chuckle and a whisper in her ear, and she relaxes.

Nathan's face is almost comical when he swings his door open to see her_. Claire?!_

_Um, hi._ She shifts uncomfortably, remembering in a rush his wife, Heidi, his sons, Simon and Monty. He'd told her about them during his phone calls_. This is gonna sound really weird, but I think I need to come in._

_Of course, of course. _He lets her in, and shoots her a very strange look when she holds the door open with her foot long enough for Peter to slip in, too

_Okay, first of all, I'm not crazy,_ she says with conviction_. But…Peter's here._

Nathan's strange look gets stranger_. No, he's not, he says slowly._

_Yes, he is,_ she insists_. He's invisible._

Nathan raises a brow slowly_. Claire._ That's it, just her name. It sounds impossibly fatherly

_Peter, help me out, dammit._

Nathan looks very alarmed for all of three seconds before Peter's voice comes from his left_. Nate, it's me. I'm here._

Nathan suddenly looks very scared and he does that thing again where his lips don't move when he speaks. _Peter?_

_Yeah. I'm here._

And suddenly they're hugging – though it looks slightly strange, given that Peter's still invisible – and Claire is wishing with all her might that she had the courage to do just what Nathan is doing now.

But then there's a ripple in the air, like a shift, and Peter appears. Or rather, it's more like the air around Peter melts away, and Peter is in the negative space that the air used to be.

Nathan pulls away, face wet._ Jesus, Peter._

_Do I look that bad? _

Claire makes some sort of noise, she must, because both of them turn to look at her at the same time. She doesn't make the conscious decision to move forward, but in the next instant, Peter's arms are around her, and he's making soft noises into her hair. She can feel Nathan's hand on her back, and feels impossibly safe_. Shh. I'm here, and you're here. That's all that matters._

For the first time in a very long time, the offer of comfort actually works.

--

She tells them all – Nathan and Peter – God, Peter – Mohinder and Molly, Matt Parkman, who has been released from the hospital – she tells them everything she knows. Trying to find out anything she could about Kirby Plaza. Her father, her birth mother, the Company, meeting Micah, Niki and DL, and what she knows of Linderman, both what her father and DL and Niki have told her.

She even tells them about the suicide tapes she made with Zach, and the time she fell from the balcony at the history museum. Peter seems interested in that story, asking how she fell. She says she remembers someone jostling her, but she never saw who it was, and he wonders out loud about a man named Claude. He has a penchant for pushing people off of things, he says dryly. Claire snorts and doesn't ask.

In turn, they tell her things she'd never imagined could be real. Mohinder speaks of his father and his research, of Sylar posing as 'Zane' and of his run-ins with Noah. Matt talks about his wife, who is pregnant and unsure of whether to send the divorce papers sitting in her desk or not. She learns of time travel and the full story of Niki-slash-Jessica. She hears about two Japanese man named Hiro and Ando and a painter named Isaac who allowed Peter the opportunity to save her; a gallery owner named Simone and her father Charles, both people whom Peter had loved, she could tell, and the full, complete story of Gabriel Gray, aka Sylar – his life and death(s) and disappearance.

There's a united feeling in it. All of them are players in a huge chess game, and this is the first time when they've all made it to one side of the board. It's heady and exhilarating,

Then Molly starts to scream about a man who sees her, and please hide her, don't think don't think about him, don't, he'll see you, and suddenly it all starts again.

--

Peter pulls her aside as they all rush to their respective duties, and asks her very seriously, if she'd like to go back to California.

_What's in California?_ she wants to ask, but remembers her family and feels guilty.

She thinks of the two paths laid out before her and it really doesn't take her long to decide at all.

_I'm a part of something here,_ she says_. So thanks for asking, but no. So where did this Isaac guy live, anyway? Maybe he painted something else we haven't found yet, something that we can use to protect Molly?_

He smiles and squeezes her hand_. I can show you._

She follows him out onto the street, her skin tingling. Yes, this is new, but it's okay. Yes.

--

end

--


End file.
